To the Victor goes the revenge (Sherlock BBC Fanfic)
November 9th, 18:54
Current Mood: good
Current Music: Prodigy
A/N - set in the future - established relationship (yes, slash)
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Sherlock wasn't sure that allowing Victor Trevor to stay at Baker Street had been a good idea. According to the research he'd done on his phone (in the taxi on the way to an intriguing crime scene that had let him down) it was never a good idea, relationship-wise, to allow your old flame to meet your current spouse without some warning. Victor was staying in John's old room, which had become more of a study over the years, or the place that John went to sleep when he'd caught a cold and was putting himself into quarantine. John had tidied up the archived files, the old case notes and momentos and generally been a welcoming host, but according to the internet that just meant he was trying to prove that he was a gracious host who wasn't threatened at all by the sudden arrival of a past flame. Apparently, some lovers became very concerned that their partner would tire of them if they didn't become more and more accommodating and trendy.
Sherlock hadn't noticed any of those traits in his spouse, but according to those in the chat room he'd quizzed John's willingness to put up Sherlock's old lover was but the first step on a slippery slope: John would eventually come to resent Sherlock and storm off if he didn't put a stop to this pattern soon. Sherlock had signed off, rather frustrated and made a mental note to ask John about it - his spouse made sense of many things that Sherlock had trouble with; the consulting detective had become used to using John as something of a translator-come-barometer when faced with 'human things' as Anderson had once put it.
His phone beeped with a text and Sherlock checked it and sighed, wondering what on earth his brother wanted now. He'd gotten better at least looking at the texts before he deleted them after a rather nasty incident that had led to John's kidnapping and near death. He'd never let that happen again.
Have you at least bought him flowers on your anniversary? M.
Sherlock scowled and glanced out the window. John didn't like flowers, but the question reminded him that John had told him to be home for dinner that night especially. His spouse had brought in groceries, which meant he'd be cooking, which meant that Sherlock would be presented with a meal prepared exactly to his tastes in the comfort of his own house, after which he could shag the cook if they both so desired.
Dragging his mind kicking and screaming back to the matter at hand - something that was a lot harder than it had been before he'd married a real person as well as his work - Sherlock told the cabbie to pull over, spying a shop that would do for an object to replace the flowers. He'd tried to buy John flowers exactly once, off Sally Donovan's recommendation. Never again.
Sherlock dismissed the cab - he was close enough to Baker Street to make it in five minutes if he walked briskly and took a shortcut - and ducked into the store of choice, spending precisely five minutes comparing their products before making his decision and paying. The woman behind the till tried to get him interested in gift wrapping, which he declined. He refrained from explaining that the only wrapping or unwrapping they did was in the setting of the bedroom or medical necessity. He'd tried that once too and John had dragged him out of the shop and sulked for an entire day. He still wouldn't go into that bookstore, which Sherlock thought ridiculous.
As he rounded the corner, only an hour and a half late from the time John had originally asked him to be home, so not too late at all by their standards, the door to Baker Street slammed open and John stormed through it, dragging a hastily packed bag towards the waiting black cab and ranting into his phone.
"... behaviour is well out of order! I'm a patient man but even I have limits! And you can tell him from me that if I never see him again in this life it will be too soon!" John shouted, hung up the phone and disappeared into the cab, which merged into traffic with some haste.
Frowning, Sherlock fit his key into the lock and hurried up the stairs to see if John had left him a note. The kitchen table was cleared of science equipment and two place settings were laid out on the bare table top. The oven was on what John had taught him was 'low' and the food inside smelt fabulous. There was no note.
"Sherlock?" Trevor called from the living room and came to lean in the doorway, all long limbs and elegant lines, "Did you see John just now?"
"Yes, he was screaming down the phone about having lost patience with someones behaviour and never wanting to see them again. Did he say who?" Sherlock asked, checking in the fridge for a note, just in case. Nothing. There was silence behind him and he turned impatiently. Trevor had a thing about wanting you to look at him while he spoke - or orated as John had been whispering last night in their bed prior to reminding Sherlock of his own oral skills - so Sherlock raised an eyebrow in Trevor's direction, hoping he'd get on with it. Trevor hesitated for a moment, before giving Sherlock a sympathetic look and coming to pat his arm.
"Oh Sherlock, he meant you. You're late to your anniversary dinner," Trevor's voice was dripping sympathy, "He's gone. You saw the bag, right?"
Sherlock tore his arm free and hurried to their room. John had packed most of his clothes, not that the man had ever had many. There was a lone jumper lying on the back of the chair they kept in the corner as a catchall - the red one with the cable knit he liked to see John in so much. Catching it up with both hands he sank onto the edge of the bed.
"Oh dear," Trevor said from the doorway, where he was once more leaning with seductive grace, "Poor Sherlock."
Sherlock buried his face in the wool, which still smelled like John. The world pressed in on him and for a moment all he could hear were the many voices of his acquaintance who had predicted that John would leave him.
"I know how to make you feel better," Trevor purred in his ear, and Sherlock wriggled away from the arm that tried to encircle him, curling up in the middle of their bed, his head on John's pillow and the jumper clutched tightly to his chest. Trevor sighed and rose, leaving the room with a dramatic swish and a promise to see to him later.
Once alone, Sherlock pulled his phone out and sent a text, the only thing he could think of that might help.
Please don't leave me. Come home. S
He clutched the phone in his hand, waiting for a response. It vibrated in his hand and he glanced at the screen. 'John calling' it read and he let it go to voicemail, not wanting to hear John's voice raised at him in anger. Texting was much better - he'd always hated it when John got angry with him, that tone of voice making his stomach tight and unhappy. The phone beeped, indicating that John had left him a voice message, but Sherlock ignored it, choosing to open the message box again.
I'm sorry I was late. Please come home. S
He didn't care that he was practically begging. In the years since he'd met John he'd come to realise that his partner had ruined him for anyone else. The old lonely lifestyle seemed like a barren wasteland compared to the bounty that John offered. He'd never met anyone who could surprise him after a period of time spent together quite the way John could. And for all that the man was an open book, there were still mysteries surrounding him. Sherlock didn't think he could return to his solitude any more - at least he couldn't do it sober...
The phone rang again and again he let it go to voicemail. It beeped again after a few minutes - a longer message then - and he once more ignored the prompt to check his voicemail. He snuggled John's jumper closer to his chest and wondered if there had been a method invented to extract and preserve scents. Mrs Hudson came up the stairs and there were quiet voices in the front room before she knocked on his bedroom door and entered without permission. Sherlock attempted to glare at her, but his heart wasn't in it, what with being shattered in his chest into cold jagged shards...
"Oh Sherlock, look at you," she tutted and reached into her pocket, pulling out her mobile phone. Before he could do more than lift his head in surprise, she sat on the bed with him and put the phone to his ear.
"Mrs Hudson, what?" he asked in confusion, only to have another voice, one from someone that was not in the room, interrupt him.
"Sherlock, what do you mean, don't leave me?" John asked, "Did you not get my note? I left it beside your plate."
"John?" Sherlock gave his landlady a hurt look for taking John's side - he'd known her first!
"Whoever told you I was leaving you is a bastard and I'll rip his face off when I get home," John continued in an angry voice, but the anger wasn't aimed at Sherlock, so his stomach didn't hurt at all, "I've been called to deal with a distant cousin's mess - he's worse than Harry, I swear to you - and I'll be back in a few days."
"I thought you were angry that I was late to dinner," Sherlock explained in a voice that was smaller than he'd have liked. Martha put a hand on his shoulder, rubbing it in a very maternal manner that was unnecessary but felt quite good.
"Geoff called and apologised for stealing you away to a crime scene. I knew you'd be late, that's why dinners in the over on 'low'. You'll have to take it out and eat it yourself," John stated matter-of-factly, "When I get back we're going to have to talk about deducing before you have all the facts."
"Trevor was quite convincing," Sherlock muttered, anger burning through his limbs as he realised what his former lover had tried to do.
"I'll kill him. Mrs Hudson will let me bury him in the basement, I'm sure. You can be my alibi," John growled, "I suppose he's taken the note I wrote to you?"
"Yes," Sherlock said, sitting up and taking the phone from Martha's hand, putting it on speaker, "But its alright. I'll get it back from him before he leaves. In fact I think I can persuade Mrs Hudson to help me."
"Oh yes, dear, I certainly will. That young man will think twice before he tries to come between my boys again," Martha's voice had taken on a distinctly vengeful note.
"I leave it in your capable hands then," John's voice sounded angry and frustrated and hurt, but Sherlock knew where that was all coming from now, and could accept it calmly, "And Sherlock? You're an idiot. I know you, remember? I'd never leave you over something so mundane as a missed or delayed dinner."
"I'm an idiot," Sherlock confirmed, "But I'm your idiot. I brought you a present, too."
"I'll look forward to unwrapping you when I get home then," John replied, amusement in his voice. Martha giggled and tutted, reminding them that there was a lady in the room, thank-you-very-much!
"I look forward to it too," Sherlock replied and hung up. He pulled the red jumper on and turned to his landlady and new partner-in-crime.
Victor had last known Sherlock as a quite young, socially awkward young man experiencing his first crush. He'd yet to recognise the man Sherlock had become, thanks in part to John and the woman sitting in front of him now.
In fact, Victor Trevor wouldn't know what hit him.
END
Disclaimer - characters and setting as depicted in BBC series are not mine. No money being made. Plot is mine.